


The Brightwater Bunyip

by Frangipanidownunder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Case File, F/M, Original Characters - Freeform, XFCryptidChallenge19, australian case file, bunyip, cryptid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 22:57:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19094740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frangipanidownunder/pseuds/Frangipanidownunder
Summary: Set after season 11, Mulder and Scully are private consultants investigating an Australian cryptid legend, the Bunyip, in Queensland.





	1. Chapter 1

They search for hours. There’s no sign of Mitchell. As the day lengthens, minty-lemon rises on the heat. The earth literally steams. Scully wipes her brow with the back of her hand, aware of her hair frizzing in the impossible humidity.  
“It’s amazing to think that there are creatures in this forest, Scully, the likes of which you’ll never see anywhere else.”  
“You claim to have seen some incredible creatures over the years, Mulder.”  
He chuckles. “I’ve seen mutants, but not marsupials or monotremes, Scully. Australian fauna is particularly unique. Wallabies and koalas and emus and platypuses, all that Steve Irwin stuff.”  
“And all the dangerous animals that want to kill you. Crocodiles and snakes and jellyfish and spiders and sharks.”  
“Bunyips.”  
She sighs. “They’re …not real, Mulder.”   
He stops, pulls out a water bottle and waggles his eyebrows as he swigs. “Really? So where is Tony Mitchell?”  
She shakes her head and takes the bottle, following in his footsteps as the canopy closes overhead. Fat drops of rain thunk against the earth, their bodies and in a split second it goes from a light shower to a torrential downpour. The sky is mottled with purple clouds. Lightning streaks past the tree cover. They run, bolting deeper into the forest. Mulder descends the slope towards a cavern glistening with rich lime-green lichen. It would be beautiful if it weren’t so painful to be in the rainstorm. Thunder growls as they enter the dark cave. She fishes out a flashlight and breathes in the musty air. They move in further as the storm rages outside. Mulder pulls off his backpack and sits on it. She does the same.   
“The tropics, huh?” he says. “Maybe Tony found shelter here too.”  
She shivers, her wet hair plastered to her face. There’s a low hum, a kind of resonant grumble. “You need some trail mix.”   
“That wasn’t me.”  
She swings the flashlight behind them. There’s a shape ahead, a dragging sound. They stand, reaching out for each other’s hands, backing away. The smell of rotting flesh fills the cave and she brings a hand to her mouth, gagging at the stench. In the arc of light they sees a wide open jaw with jagged, bloodied teeth.  
“Scully,” he whispers.  
“Yeah?”  
“Tell me again how you don’t believe in Bunyips…”  
A few days earlier…  
Their holiday house is on a headland overlooking a perfect bay: white sand, azure sea, copper rocks piled up like totems at either side. To the left, the town of Brightwater’s infrastructure is visible, a couple of larger apartment-hotels, a smattering of homes and holiday rentals dotted on the bluffs and lower into the valleys, shops following the natural slope of the land. To the right, cows graze the prickly grass to the edges of the beach. The rain forest stretches behind, infinite. She walks down to the beach and the salt-wind whips at her hair. Mulder is already building an elaborate castle with a yellow plastic bucket and spade set he found in the garage. She takes a photo and he leans into the turrets, grinning. She hasn’t seen him this relaxed in years.   
The blog started as an outlet for him. Then the consultancy, set up on a whim when a follower asked for help tracking down an evil spirit that turned out to be a disgruntled employee, took off. ‘Out of the Basement’ has turned their lives around. They hear from Jackson every now and then – he sends them snow globes from wherever he is in the world. Skinner visits, though he’ll never be the same; he gets about with a walking stick and a permanent droop on the left side of his face. The baby…the baby never was and she’s come to terms with it.   
“Hey, Scully, how about some fish and chips then we’ll go Bunyip hunting?”  
The client, Tony Mitchell, owner of several local businesses including a pub that served the best fish and chips in town, has funded their visit. Mitchell claims a monster, the Brightwater Bunyip, is at large. The Bunyip has been terrorising the community on and off for years, but has recently ramped up its campaign, mutilating cattle, sheep, dogs and cats.  
“I heard that noise again last night,” Mitchell says, pulling a pot of Carlton Dry for Mulder and offering Scully a glass of Lemon, Lime and Bitters. The taste is strange, medicinal almost and she smiles inwardly as she drinks. The medical references find her wherever she is. Just like Mulder’s ghosts and ghouls follow him.  
“The scratching?” Mulder asks, sipping the amber liquid.  
“More like a screeching, mate. The sound of a bunch of horny cats on the prowl.”  
Scully is bemused by the visual and lets Mulder deal with him. Behind the bar, there’s a display featuring a concept plan of a grand beachside villa resort, azure water sparkling with Photoshop’s best filter. ‘Brightwater Haven’ the sign declares ‘Living The Dream.’ It’s a phrase Jackson uses when she asks him how he is. Living the dream, mom, he says, emphasising the mom. He’s a wise-ass and a punk but she loves it when he projects his life into her mind. The visions, the dreams, are a tenuous connection but they’re enough.  
As she finishes her drink, she listens as Mitchell claim the old woman in the ‘dero’ house on the hill conjures the Bunyip out of spite. His grisly tale grows more gothic by the minute.  
“Carlotta isn’t just a doddery old biddy. She’s a grade one bitch,” he says. “Don’t let her white hair and stooped posture fool youse. She’s inside that falling-down house looking out at the ocean and making lotions and potions. Hubble, bubble and all that. Her place makes this town untidy. It’s the first thing you see as you drive here. And she’s a nutter. Always has been. But she’s a dangerous nutter. And youse two, you know how to deal with them kinds of people, don’t you?”  
Mulder asks the standard questions. “Has she made threats, Mr Mitchell? Has she assaulted anyone? Have the police questioned her?”  
Mitchell pulls a pot of Tooheys for a gnarled old man before stabbing a finger to his temple and letting out a chesty laugh. “She’s too clever, isn’t she? I mean, that’s the trick. She just disappears into that house for weeks on end, and lo and behold the Bunyip rears its ugly head. Coincidence much?”  
There’s a softening of Mulder’s jaw and he glances at Scully. “So, you’re suggesting that Carlotta Uccello transforms into a Bunyip using some kind of magical potion?”  
The sun is melting away outside and Scully pushes her glass across the bar. “I’ll meet you outside,” she says and Mulder expertly covers his smirk.

The street is emptying. People eat early here. The late autumn days are short. Mitchell told them that tourists drive through on their way to the larger resorts further up the North Queensland coast. She walks to where the steps lead down to the beach. A whip of wind sends a flurry of silvery sand against her legs and it stings. She walks towards the ocean, foamy in the stiff breeze. The smell of her childhood builds as she approaches. A moment of silence, where the last wave shrinks away and the next is yet to form, where the evening gulls bob without calling, where no vehicles chug down the road behind. It’s perfect.   
Scully turns and looks back up at the ‘dero’ house where Carlotta Uccello allegedly orchestrates her terrifying reign over the townsfolk. Perched on the bluff, it’s like a child’s version of a house – its sticklike, bent shape is outlined by a dull light in the centre of the property. It flickers, beats in a rhythm, like a heart. It’s mesmerising. Behind her, the next wave is coming, whooshing, but Scully can’t tear her eyes away from the light, pulsing, growing brighter. There’s a shrill cry, a gull or the wind. A chill lifts the hairs on her arms. Her bare feet sink into the cool sand. The light fills her eyes. Then without warning goes off. The wave hits the back of her legs and uproots her feet, sending her barrelling forward and over, face-first into the cold water. Above, there’s a riotous cackling. Dragging herself up, sodden, she expects to see birds fleeing, but she sees nothing but the shadow of a woman, hair trailing, hands gripping the verandah balcony.  
“Scully?” It’s Mulder’s voice that startles her senses back to the present. She shivers instantly and he grabs her elbow, pulling her out of the lapping water. He’s still wearing his runners and she’s stupidly irritated at this.  
“I’m fine,” she says by rote.  
“What happened?”  
She looks up at the house and the woman is still there, but she looks so ordinary, harmless, bent over a walking stick, hobbling back into the house.


	2. Chapter 2

The phone call in the night is a shock. She can hear Mulder mumbling platitudes at the barking voice of Tony Mitchell.  
“Another incident?” she asks.  
He doesn’t respond, just gets dressed in the dark. The sky is turning dawn grey, the air still laden with moisture and the car’s interior is comfortably cool.   
“He claims his prize bull has been killed in a frenzied attack?”  
“A prize bull?” she says. “That’s about 1500 pounds of muscle and bone. What kind of creature could rip one of those apart?”  
She hears his lips pull open and shakes her head in anticipation of his words.  
“There are strange creatures here.”  
“Mulder, they may be strange but they are not mythical. The Bunyip is a cryptid, a legend shaped to fit the things that people cannot explain.”  
He’s silent for a moment as they drive along the narrow track that follows the cliffs into town.   
“We’ve seen things we can’t explain, Scully. How would we explain Jackson and his abilities?”  
Her heart races a little at the suggestion that Jackson is some sort of the cryptid. But she cannot, nor would she ever want to, explain his abilities. Ahead, the lights of the cluster of shops and hotels in the main strip twinkle. Behind, darkness settles over their house. She shifts in her seat. The screen begins to smog over. She twists the vents up but the humidity rises.  
“The air con’s on the blink,” she says and Mulder huffs, navigating the car along the winding road. She opens the window and muggy air wafts in. The windscreen remains fogged. Mulder rubs at it with his palm but the glass just streaks.  
“We’ll be on the main road soon,” Mulder says and steers around the next bend. As the car contours the road, the tyres scrunch on loose gravel and the back wheels slip. He straightens and slows. The air is streaming in through open windows and its warmth presses against her chest. There’s a low hum outside, cicadas and other insects. They reach the crest of the hill ready to start their descent. Carlotta Uccello’s house, perched on the edge of the cliff is visible in the moonlight and its skeletal frame is all angles and edges. Mulder makes the left turn and accelerates more confidently on the blacktop. The noise increases outside and her skin is clammy. She closes her eyes, pressing her fingers into her temples and bridge of her nose.  
“You okay, Scully?”  
“Headache,” she says and just as she looks up at him there’s a huge bang, something crashing against the front of the car, and Mulder hits the brakes.  
“Shit,” he says, as the car slides sideways to a juddering halt. They’re both out in no time and Scully notices the utter silence now. So profound it actually makes her ears ache. Then a single, keening wail somewhere on the ocean side of the road. She reaches for Mulder’s arm and he nods slightly at her.   
The driver’s side of the hood and wheel arch is crushed. There are dark streaks, presumably blood, cut in along with flecks of paintwork.  
“Can you see anything?” Mulder asks from behind her as she wanders over to the perfunctory fence that separates the road from the cliff edge. The moon appears oversized as it hangs over the water. Ripples of silver shimmer towards them but there is nothing to see other than the sheer beauty of it.  
“No. It must have been a wallaby or roo.”  
“And it appeared from nowhere before crashing over the cliff and disappearing from sight?”  
She’s more than used to this dance they do. It’s as much a part of them as breathing, as loving. “So, your theory is the Bunyip crashes into our car to stop us from visiting Tony Mitchell who has reported an attack?”  
He opens the door of the car. “It might have been a roo, but I didn’t see anything, did you? It just sort of came out of nowhere and disappeared into the same nowhere.”  
“The windows were fogged up,” she says, sliding in to her seat. “But anyway, after we’ve looked at the dead bull, we need to talk to Carlotta Uccello.”   
His profile is silhouetted in the strange light. She’ll never be able to express how much she loves his features. His broad nose and short chin, his angled cheekbones and that vein in his temple that dissects his skin.   
“To work out how she transforms into the Bunyip?” There’s a popping sound as his lips open into a smile. He starts the engine.   
“Your theory is developing,” she says and he rewards her gentle teasing with a glorious smile. She pats his knee and he covers her hand with his as he drives. “Into an episode of Teen Wolf,” she adds, as they round the bend and the hum of insects trilling rises again.

Carlotta Uccello is tiny. It’s not often Scully can see the top of somebody’s head but this woman is like a bird, curved back, sharp features, quick dark eyes, head nodding as she walks. She’s wearing an intricately knitted black shawl and when she opens her arms to shake her walking stick, Scully can only see wings.   
“This man has made my life miserable since 17 October 1989.” The tip of her cane taps a beat on the silvered deck of the verandah. The wind is wild, buffeting the headland. Scully grips the handrail tighter with each gust.  
“That’s a very specific date,” Mulder says, closing in behind Scully, as though to protect her from the elements.   
“It’s the day my daughter died.”  
Everything falls silent. The wind drops as though under command. Mulder shifts, his body pressing closer to her back. Carlotta’s head moves rapidly and there’s a tremble along her arms too. Scully wonders if the woman has Parkinson’s Disease. There’s a low growl from inside the house.  
“It’s my dog,” the woman says, lifting her chin. “She is afraid of strangers.”  
“I’m sorry about your daughter, Mrs Uccello…”  
“Miss,” she says, flashing Scully a defiant look before her mouth works into a grin. “Shocking, isn’t it! How society loves to categorise the single woman. Spinster, old maid, career-woman, dyke, whore, unmarried mother, witch. There is no kind name. We only become valued when we are married to a man.”   
“What can you tell us about the series of attacks on animals in the town?” Mulder’s hand flattens against the small of Scully’s back and she’s glad for his touch. Tales of dead children leave her rattled like the loose fittings in this house.  
Carlotta cackles and the wind rises along with the growl, which turns into a howl. “That man in the town, the one who believes he is mayor or king or perhaps even higher; he is responsible.” She holds them with a steely gaze and Scully sees a woman hardened to her circumstance. She feels lucky to have Mulder with whom to share her grief and loss. Carlotta has suffered alone. “He is rich,” she adds, as thought that is an explanation for everything.  
“You’re telling us that Tony Mitchell is behind the attacks? Even on his own stock and property?”  
A gull shrieks and Scully gasps at the sharp intrusion. Then another flaps past. Within thirty seconds there are dozens and dozens of birds, feathers and beaks brushing past them. Mulder folds himself over Scully and pushes her towards the house. As they pass, Carlotta lifts her stick up and waves it in the air. The birds disappear.   
The inside of the house is dank, the musty odour of mould hanging on the air. Scully pats her face and hair, heart beating, breaths coming in sharp spurts. She can feel the cuts and grazes on her skin. Mulder has blood dripping from a small wound on his temple.  
“The birds sometimes get confused.” Carlotta hands them a wad of cloth infused with a minty smell. “It’s eucalyptus oil. A good antiseptic.”  
Scully looks around at the room. It’s devoid of furniture save for a rocking chair and a small table, tilting precariously on a short leg. A fat sepia candle sits on it, wax dripping down the side on to a stack of envelopes. Probably unpaid bills, Scully thinks, judging by the window-faces and official-looking logos. There’s a fireplace surrounded by red bricks, bunches of sticks and thin logs are piled in a metal holder on the floor. In the hearth, amongst the logs there are remnants of paper, curling at the edges. Scully wonders how often Carlotta rips up her mail and burns it. How long one can run from utility companies and local councils. Home ownership doesn’t discount poverty. The wooden mantel above it holds a row of small glass jars filled with liquids, seeds and leaves. There is a single photo in a wooden frame. Carlotta and a young child, a girl with the same face, the same tumbling hair, but raven-black.   
The sting of eucalypt makes her skin tingle. She presses the cloth into Mulder’s cut. “Why would Tony Mitchell do this?” He sucks in a breath as she dabs at the cut.  
Carlotta utters a high -warble, flapping her arms and wandering in circles in the cavernous room. “He is a selfish man, greedy, devious.” She stops then, looks up, juts her chin forward, eyes flashing. “Cruel.”  
Outside, there’s a raging gust of wind and a sprawl of feathers flies up and out towards the ocean. Scully can see the gulls bobbing on the restless water. From somewhere in the house there is a low growl. The old woman taps her stick on the ground and a large hound prowls in, an awkward gait, like it is limping, woolly fur coiling from its broad body, soulful brown eyes searching the faces of the visitors. Its tongue lolls, dripping saliva on the floor. The dog shakes, turns a circle and flops to the floor with a sigh.  
Mulder shifts on his feet. “Does your dog stay in the house with you or is it free to roam?”  
“You cannot control a spirit,” Carlotta says. “Walls, gates, boundaries will not hold them in.”  
“Have you ever seen the Brightwater Bunyip?” Mulder asks.  
“This is the fantasy of Mr Mitchell. A story to fool the gullible who do not wish to see beyond the bottoms of their beer glasses.”  
“The wounds on Mr Mitchell’s bull are consistent with a dog attack,” Scully says.   
Carlotta winces, bangs the stick against the wall. The dog heaves itself to its feet and howls, gently, a mournful sound. “If you are looking here for answers to your questions, you will leave unhappy. If you are looking here for questions to your answers, that is another matter. Fuori,” she says, with a double tap of her cane and the dog limps into the darkness of the house.  
As they leave, Scully notices the puddle of saliva on the floor is tinged with what looks like blood.


	3. Chapter 3

Back at the house, the sky is pewter with the setting sun. Mulder is stabbing at thick t-bone steaks on the barbecue that sits on the deck. Scully is adding to the case notes on her laptop.   
“Mulder, when you checked on the Uccello and Mitchell families, did you find out who preceded who here in Brightwater?”  
“There was nothing clear, although I did trace a Pino and Gisela Uccello through passenger manifests and marriage certificates that predates Mitchell’s version of when his family settled. They had twelve children but the birth record for a daughter called Carlotta would put her at more than 120 years old. And, Eugene Victor Tooms aside, I don’t think that’s likely. The librarian suggested that the Uccello house was the first dwelling in the area but documentation gets lost.” She nods and he turns the meat. “And the first recorded sighting of the Beast was back in 1927 when Michael Mitchell, Tony’s great-grandfather, was reported in the Brightwater Tribune as ‘coming eye to chest with a raging beast with glowing red eyes and lashing tongue’.”  
“Shades of Mothman,” she says and smiles at the memory, this similarity of the climate.   
“And what about the daughter, Scully? Ophelia. What did you find out?”  
“Not much luck there. I couldn’t find a death certificate.”  
“Odd?” Mulder muses, pouring a glass of fruity New Zealand sauvignon blanc for her.  
“The Coroner’s Office of Queensland hasn’t returned my call yet. But what’s even stranger is that I couldn’t find a birth certificate either. I checked the local cemetery records and there’s nothing.”  
He hums the Twilight Zone theme tune and swigs his beer. “A non-existent child dies and is never buried. Have we ever investigated anything like this before, Scully?”  
“I think what we’re dealing with is simply a neighbourhood feud. There are many cultures where births and deaths are not recorded. The child could have been buried on the property for all we know.”  
“This is Australia, Scully, not some mysterious, long-forgotten tribe where modern society holds no sway. How is it possible that a child here is born and dies with no trace?”  
“There’s a lot about this case that begs answers yet all we seem to do is ask questions. What did Carlotta say? If you are looking here for answers to your questions, you will leave unhappy. If you are looking here for questions to your answers, that is another matter.”  
“Well, I don’t want to leave unhappy. And I’m pretty damned sure Tony Mitchell wouldn’t want us to either. I think the steaks are done.”  
“I’ll get the salad,” she says, standing. “I did find a report in the Tribune dated the day before Ophelia died that caught my eye.”  
Mulder tilts his head and lifts a steak onto her plate.  
“A number of people witnessed a young child running in and out of the ocean, leaping the waves, rolling in the breakers.”  
“That’s strange?” he asks. “Sounds like the kid was having a ball.”  
“Listen to this part, though: Eye-witness Anthony, aged 24, said the child was covered in hair, all over its body and that every now and then it would drop on all fours and bark. When I approached it, the thing snarled and bared its teeth, howled like nothing I’ve ever heard, then ran off, too quick for me to catch it. I went home tense and shaking and when I heard the same noise later that night, I grabbed my gun and sent off several rounds to scare it away.”  
Mulder raises his eyebrows. “You think Tony Mitchell was the witness?”  
“There’s an artist’s impression.” She turns the screen towards him. “This child looks very feminine. The flowing hair. Is it too much of a leap to suggest it’s Tony talking about Ophelia?”  
“You’ve spent too long with me, Scully,” he says, cutting into his meat. “Dog-faced boys and girls.”  
“There is a condition called Species Dysphoria, Mulder. I think that this child and perhaps even Carlotta suffer from it. She’s very birdlike.”  
“I noticed,” he says, rubbing at the cut on his forehead. “So, your theory is that she doesn’t transform into a bird, she just thinks she’s a bird? Tony Mitchell killed Ophelia with the shotgun and doesn’t even know it? And Carlotta Uccello exacts her revenge by mutilating his stock?”  
“It’s a working theory.” She dresses the salad as he plates the steaks.

Tony Mitchell’s property is vast, hundreds of head of cattle grazing acres of prime coastal flats and verdant hills. His family has farmed here for decades, an original World War 1 soldier settlement that they expanded over the years, buying more land, opening businesses and building up the town.   
From the verandah of his home, Scully can see a storm brewing. “Is there much land here for sale?” she asks, looking around at the pristine vastness and wondering who would want to spoil this. Even to Live the Dream. She thinks of the greyscale gloom of DC and shakes her head.  
Mitchell shrugs. “There’s always land for sale if you offer the right price.”  
“And the community is behind this plan for expansion?” Mulder asks, wrapping his fingers over the handrail.  
“We want to be the next tourist hot spot. There’s so much to offer here, but the animal attacks are putting off investors.”  
“It’s like the plot of Jaws,” Scully says, trying not to sound too scathing. Mulder gives a minute shake of his head. “And Carlotta Uccello? Does she support your vision? Her property would seem to be the one that would be most affected.”  
Mitchell thumps his boot on the decking, loosening clumps of a green-grey mud that scatter and bounce like skimming stones. “She wouldn’t know progress if it roared in her face.” His face is contorted and he looks just as Carlotta described. Cruel.   
“And the local Council has approved your plans?”  
Mitchell laughs. “I am the local Council.”  
“Has Carlotta agreed to sell her land?” Scully asks, but Mitchell doesn’t answer, just looks out at the paddocks and smiles.  
“Can we see more of the property?” Mulder asks, lifting the backpack over his shoulders.  
At the far reaches of his land, where a winding creek trails, is the start of the rainforest. They trek behind him as he outlines all the reasons why the Brightwater Bunyip is connected to Carlotta.  
“Could her dog be responsible? It’s a big animal.” The sound of the rainforest rises on the day’s building heat and Scully pulls at her shirt, unsticking it.  
“There’s no dog I know that makes the noise I hear.”  
“She accused you of orchestrating the whole thing.”  
He laughs brutally. “Why would I do that?”  
A pair of bright parrots thwumps past and Mulder ducks out of the way of their undulating course. He stops and looks back up the incline. “Your property runs all the way to Miss Uccello’s. Has she always lived there?”  
“Some folks reckon she’s been here longer than electricity. All I know is she used to frighten me when I was a nipper. She’s a witch.”  
Mulder turns back to him with a pleasant smile. “Or a Bunyip.”


	4. Chapter 4

In the thick of the trees, the only sound is the tinkle of the water running in the creek. It is beautiful, Scully thinks. A vision of vivid greens and earthy terracottas, glossy leaves dotted with droplets of dew. The organic smell of rich earth follows them.   
The hum of cicadas is almost deafening, but there’s something else underlying it to. A beat, a pulse that thuds in Scully’s limbs and forehead and chest. It’s like the forest enters you, takes root in your nervous system and grows from the inside out, drumming with an internal resonance. It’s similar to how the visions of Jackson come to her. A pressure inside before her mind opens out and lets her see what he’s seeing. The sky overhead closes in, presses down. She can smell the rain. Mulder is talking to Tony, asking about the hairy child on the beach from all those years before.  
“That kid was a weirdo. I remember it. Running around barking like a bloody mongrel. Even cocked its leg to piss. The parents must have been two cans short of a six-pack.”  
There’s a low rumble and Scully shudders as they trek on. She eyes the canopy, swaying above them. Behind, Scully hears cracking, twigs breaking and branches snapping. She stops, turns. The path they’ve taken is narrower than she thought, viewing it as she is from this perspective. She looks around, through the dancing leaves and fronds, into the darker places. Mulder and Mitchell’s voices thin out as they move ahead. Another snap, followed by what sounds like a moan. There’s something in the depths of a clump of ferns, she thinks, and she tries to call out to get Mulder’s attention. But her voice is trapped in her throat. She takes a wobbly step forward, bends. There’s a smell. Rancid, rotting. The forest bed is rich, damp, so rationally, she knows that organic breakdown is taking place all the time.  
“Mulder,” she says, but it comes out as a whisper and is lost in a gust of wind so strong that her hair whips around her face. She crouches, hears the creak of her ankles and knees above the hammering of her heart. She lifts a flat green leaf in front of her and holds it aside. There’s a slithering and as she drops the leaf, she tries to think what kind of snakes reside in the tropical rainforest. She stands up, paces backwards, keeping her eyes on the clump. The rumbling is growing louder and she realises it’s not thunder. It’s too low; it’s rolling and roiling and growling and it’s coming from under the ground, an earthquake, a tremor that runs up her legs into her hips, stomach, chest. She can’t move. She’s taken root. Behind her, on the other side of the path, there’s another snapping and crackling noise. She swings, sees eyes and a crest of black fur. But the darkness of the understorey claims the movement and she calls out again, louder this time. Her voice is swallowed by a sinister growl from the other side again. She tries to lift a foot but the earth has covered her shoes and she realises she’s sinking.   
“Mulder! MULDER!”   
A fierce barking from the undergrowth fills her with panic and she grabs her own knee, trying to pull herself free as the rotten smell fills her nostrils. The barking and snorting grows louder, closer and she falls with a thud on her left arm so that her elbow digs into her ribs. She lets out a cry and calls for Mulder again. She hears the thing padding through the foliage and her feet are still buried up to the ankle. She can’t even wriggle her shoes off. There’s another tremor, she feels it run through her legs, hands, backside. The leaves are separating, flattening under the force of the beast heading right towards her and she’s certain the same thing is happening on the other side of the path too. There’s a panting behind her, a yelping in front. She tips her head back and screams at the clouds barrelling overhead.  
“Mulder!”

He’s there, hands under her armpits, hooking her back and up as she scrabbles her feet free. The mud that had suctioned her loosens with a squelch as Tony Mitchell strides towards them, mouth hanging open in shock.  
“What’s going on?” he asks, kneeling at Scully’s muddied feet.  
“Quicksand,” she says, panting, leaning back on her hands, waiting for her breathing to even out.  
“Are you okay?” Mulder asks, helping up to her feet. They feel numb and she knows the pins and needles will hurt like hell soon enough.  
“I’m fine. There was an animal. Something in the bushes there.” She points to the flattened foliage.  
“The Bunyip,” Mitchell says, hands on hips, hat tipped forward shading his eyes. He removes a gun, concealed under his shirt. “I’m going after it.”  
“Wait,” Mulder says, “you have no idea what you’re dealing with.”  
“Oh, I do, mate. I do.” The man dives into the undergrowth and a rumble of thunder splits the sky above them.   
It’s not long before a protracted scream pierces the air and Mulder grabs Scully’s elbow, guiding her towards the sound.

They search for hours. There’s no sign of Mitchell. As the day lengthens minty-lemon rises on the heat. The earth literally steams. Scully wipes her brow with the back of her hand, aware of her hair frizzing in the impossible humidity.  
“It’s amazing to think that there are creatures in this forest, Scully, the likes of which you’ll never see anywhere else.”  
“You claim to have seen some incredible creatures over the years, Mulder.”  
He chuckles. “I’ve seen mutants, but not marsupials or monotremes, Scully. Australian fauna is particularly unique. Wallabies and koalas and emus and platypuses, all that Steve Irwin stuff.”  
“And all the dangerous animals that want to kill you. Crocodiles and snakes and jellyfish and spiders and sharks.”  
“Dropbears and Bunyips.”  
She sighs. “They’re …not real, Mulder.”   
He stops, pulls out a water bottle and waggles his eyebrows as he swigs. “Really? So where is Tony Mitchell?”  
She shakes her head and takes the bottle, following in his footsteps as the canopy closes overhead. Fat drops of rain thunk against the earth, their bodies and in a split second it goes from a light shower to a torrential downpour. The sky is mottled with purple clouds. Lightning streaks past the tree cover. They run, bolting deeper into the forest. Mulder descends the slope towards a cavern glistening with rich lime-green lichen. It would be beautiful if it weren’t so painful to be in the rainstorm. Thunder growls as they enter the dark cave. She fishes out a flashlight and breathes in the musty air. They move in further as the storm rages outside. Mulder pulls off his backpack and sits on it. She does the same.   
“The tropics, huh?” he says. “Maybe Tony found shelter here too.”  
She shivers, her wet hair plastered to her face. There’s a low hum, a kind of resonant grumble. “You need some trail mix.”   
“That wasn’t me. Maybe this is a dingo cave.”  
She swings the flashlight behind them. There’s a shape ahead, a dragging sound. They stand, reaching out for each other’s hands, backing away. The smell of rotting flesh fills the cave and she brings a hand to her mouth, gagging at the stench. In the arc of light they sees a wide open jaw with jagged, bloodied teeth.  
“Scully,” he whispers.  
“Yeah?”  
“Tell me again how you don’t believe in Bunyips…”


	5. Chapter 5

They press against the cave wall, dimming their lights, as the creature stalks forward, sniffing and issuing guttural responses to each new stimuli. It’s too dark to get a full visual but Scully makes out a long, sleek body, a triangular head, dark fur covering the length of it. It skulks on all fours and seems to fill the cave. Mulder’s fingers are entwined in hers and there’s nowhere for them to run. One of them has to create a distraction. She knows he’s thinking the same thing when he dips his head and runs his lips across her cheek, letting her know how much he loves her.  
Before she can protest and offer herself up, he launches himself from the cave wall, screaming fury at the beast. Its head whips around at the cacophony and it curls its body towards Mulder, now dashing towards the cave entrance. Before he gets very far, a shot rings out. Scully ducks reflexively. Another shot and an eerie screeching. She has no idea if it’s Mulder or the Beast, but the sound is very much like a bunch of cats yowling. Then, a single, rasping cry before a moment of raw silence, broken only by a fluttering of what sounds like a thousand wings beating.  
The stark force of a team of forensics and police officers line-walking and working through information, backlit by red and blue flashing lights, is incongruous against the soft earthy hues of the forest. The crinkling of unfurling evidence bags, the static buzz of radios, the barking commands of human voices, the continuing wail of sirens; the noises of the city, of their former life. Scully wraps her arms around her waist as the rain finally eases. She looks down at her feet, mud-clogged shoes now decorated with black feathers.  
“Mrs Mulder,” an officer says, flipping open a notepad. Scully lets her presumptive error slide. “Can you describe the events of this afternoon?”   
The woman is trembling slightly, knuckles white around the pen. She’s young, bright-eyed, as green as the forest. Scully nods, opens her mouth and tries her best to explain what she and Mulder were doing in a cave on Tony Mitchell’s property.

They spend the next day at the station house in the city, helping with reports. When they’re free they find a small café at the top of the main strip, its balcony with panoramic views over the headlands.   
Mulder shakes his head over a toasted focaccia and a latte in a glass. “Mitchell had been trying to buy out Carlotta for years, sending her contracts on a weekly basis, harassing her.”  
“There were envelopes in her house,” Scully says. “Scraps of paper in her fireplace.”  
“She burnt him in more ways than one,” Mulder muses, steepling his hands to his mouth. “He’s going to have learn more neighbourly ways, isn’t he?”  
Scully chuffs. “Otherwise his cellmates might not view him like the townsfolk here have done over the years.”  
“Deception, fraud, non-compliant firearms licence, he’ll certainly see some jail time, Scully. And what will become of Brightwater? A town built on the greed and corruption of one family? With his drive towards developing that resort, his finances were precarious. Guess we won’t be getting paid any time soon.”  
She doesn’t much care about the man and his materialistic downfall, or the ‘Out of the Basement’ invoice. “What will become of Carlotta? Will she stay in her nest and live her life much as she has done for decades?”  
“Centuries?” he teases and she flashes him a broad smile as she cuts into her lemon drizzle slice. Wherever they go in the world, they still somehow manage to end up sparring over impossibilities. Life has a way of throwing up surprises and then settling into a similar pattern. It’s a small comfort. “She didn’t show any signs of gunshot wounds. No broken wings,” he says, flapping an arm. “And what about Ophelia, Scully?”  
“She died in 1989, Mulder.”  
“You believe that?”  
“The Coroner’s office confirmed it. They tracked down both the birth and death certificates.”  
“Ophelia looked very much alive to me, skulking around the house.”  
“You really believe that the dog is the daughter? That she has the power to transform her body? That’s not how Species Dysphoria works…Mulder. Really?”  
He doesn’t answer. Just swigs his coffee and looks at her over the white cup. In the brilliant sunlight she sees Jackson’s eyes reflected in his. She sees so much of their son in him. Brazen confidence battling severe self-doubt. Brilliant highs and crashing lows. Expansive knowledge narrowed by tunnel vision.   
They are walking contradictions. But they are her walking contradictions.   
He takes her hand in his and they sit watching Carlotta Uccello’s house on the bluff, birds swooping the rickety roofline and the distant braying of a dog hanging in the air.


End file.
